Part 4

“The goose knoweth where the bin leaketh.”

“Quills of sages were plucked from geese.”

“Puddings fit for lords would sour the belly of the swineboy.”

“To clap the cover on a steaming pot of herbs will but modify the stench.”

Footnote 1:

A word of this degree of latinity is very rare with her.

“She who quacketh loudest deems the gander not the lead at waddling time.”

“Climb not the stars to find a pebble.”

“He who hath a house, a hearth and a friend hath a lucky lot.”

She is often caustic and incisive.

“A man loveth his wife, but, ah, the buckles on his knee breeks!”

“Should I present thee with a pumpkin, wouldst thou desire to count the seeds?”

“A drink of asses’ milk would nurture the swine, but wouldst thou then expect his song to change from Want, Want, Want?”

“Some folk, like the bell without a clapper, go clanging on in good faith, believing the good folk can hear them.”

“Were I to tell thee the pudding string were a spinet’s string, thou wouldst make ready for the dance.”

“Thee’lt tie thy God within thy kerchief, else have none of Him, and like unto a bat, hang thyself topsy-turvy to better view His handiwork.”

“’Twould pleg thee sore should thy shadow wear cap and bells.”

“From constant wishing the moon may tip for thee.”

“Wouldst thou have a daisy blossom upon a thistle?”

“Ye who carry pigskins to the well and lace not the hole are a tiresome lot.”

“He who eateth a bannock well made flattereth himself should his belly not sour.”

Aside from the dramatic compositions, some of which are of great length, most of the communications received from Patience have been in verse. There is rarely a rhyme, practically all being iambic blank verse in lines of irregular length. The rhythm is almost uniformly smooth. At some sittings the poetry begins to come as soon as the hands are placed upon the planchette, and the evening is given over to the production of verse. At others, verses are mingled with repartee and epigram, but seldom is an evening spent without at least one poem coming. This was not the case in the earlier months, when many sittings were given up wholly to conversation. The poetry has gradually increased in volume, as if the earlier efforts of the influence had been tentative, while the responsiveness of the intermediary was being tested. So, too, the earlier verses were fragments.

A blighted bud may hold A sweeter message than the loveliest flower. For God hath kissed her wounded heart And left a promise there.

A cloak of lies may clothe a golden truth. The sunlight’s warmth may fade its glossy black To whitening green and prove the fault Of weak and shoddy dye.

Oh, why let sorrow steel thy heart? Thy busom is but its foster mother, The world its cradle, and the loving home Its grave.

Weave sorrow on the loom of love And warp the loom with faith.

Such fragments, however, were but steps leading to larger things. A little later on this came:

So thou hast trod among the tansey tuft And murr and thyme, and gathered all the garden’s store, And glutted on the lillie’s sensuous sweet, And let thy shade to mar the sunny path, And only paused to strike the slender humming bird, Whose molten-tinted wing but spoke the song Of fluttering joy, and in thy very hand Turned to motley gray. Then thinkest thou To build the garden back by trickery?